Fig

Lots of things come to mind when I consider figs.
First is one of my mother's many hilarious go-to phrases in response to 11-year-old protests of mine about unimportant things ('Siubhan, I couldn't give a fig!'). I'm certain she must be the only person who says it.
Second is the woman who used to pop into a cafe I once worked in to donate the products of her fig tree to our customers every September and October. She loved the tree, but was less keen on the figs, which worked out beautifully for everyone else.
Lastly though, I can't think of figs, or eat them, without associating them with the proper beginnings of autumn.

When we go back to Islay, my sister spends most of her time chasing Ben around with a notebook and pen, jotting down precise details of how he makes things, so that she can make them herself. I like to think that she 's writing him a kind of unapproved and peculiar ghost-written cookery book.
When he made this pudding, I had forgotten my notebook, so all I know is that it is figs baked in the oven with red wine and hazelnuts, and served with yoghurt on the side. The wine goes all warm and caramelly and the colours are all autumn, with the last pinks of summer thrown in for good measure. A bit of both seasons, which is just what you need in September, I think.